Her scent changes. Deepens. The lavender darkens into something richer, headier, and I can smell her arousal now, thick and intoxicating. It hits me like a drug.
I’m still kneeling between her legs. The position puts my face level with hers, my chest pressed against her knees, and when she shifts forward her thigh brushes against my cock. I’m so hard it hurts, straining against my jeans, and I have to bite back a groan at the contact.
More. I need more.
My hands slide into her hair, tilting her head back so I can kiss her deeper. She opens for me, lets me in, and the taste of her floods my senses. I want to devour her. Want to pull her into my lap and grind up against her heat. Want to bury my face in her neck where her scent is sweetest and lick the skin there until she’s writhing.
She shifts again—intentional this time—pressing her thigh harder against me, and the friction drags a sound out of mychest. Half growl, half groan. My hips jerk forward before I can stop them.
Mine. She’s mine.
But not like this. Not when she’s scared and overwhelmed and doesn’t know what she wants yet.
I wrench myself away.
We’re both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dazed and dark with want. She looks like she’s been thoroughly kissed—wrecked, really—and possessive satisfaction curls through my chest.
But she also looks overwhelmed. Vulnerable. And I won’t take advantage of that. Not even when my cock is throbbing and her scent is everywhere and every instinct I have is screaming at me to lay her back on this bathroom floor and?—
“Elijah?” Her voice is shaky. Breathless.
“Not here.” I’m surprised I can form words. My voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. “Not like this.”
Hurt flickers across her face. “You don’t want?—”
“I want.” The word rips out of me, rough as gravel. I press my forehead to hers, trying to steady my breathing, trying to think past the need pounding through my blood. “God, Tessa. I want you so much I can barely see straight. But not in Ben’s bathroom when you’re scared and your heat’s coming and you don’t know what you want yet.”
Her breath shudders out. I can feel it warm against my lips, and it takes everything I have not to close the distance again.
“What if I want you?” she whispers.
“Then you’ll still want me tomorrow.” I pull back far enough to meet her eyes. Force myself to hold her gaze instead of looking at her swollen mouth. “And the day after that. And I’ll be here. We’ll all be here. But I won’t be something you regret.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Then her expression softens—wonder replacing the daze—and she nods.
“Okay.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “Okay.”
Neither of us moves. We stay there, foreheads close, breathing the same air. Her hand comes up slowly—giving me time to pull away—and her fingers brush my jaw. Trace along the stubble there. Land softly on my cheek.
I close my eyes. Let myself feel it.
When was the last time someone touched me like this? Gentle. Curious. Like I was something worth exploring.
“You’re shaking,” she whispers.
I am. I hadn’t noticed.
“So are you.”
She laughs—soft, surprised—and the sound breaks something loose in my chest. When I open my eyes, she’s smiling. Not the polished smile she uses at town meetings. Something smaller. Realer.
“We’re a mess,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“This is probably a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
